


The Rust Upon Your Skin

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_darkarts, Consensual Homicide, F/M, Gen, Gore, Guro, Horror, Murder, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The advertisement seems a gift; you know you must accept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rust Upon Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the Horror Fest at hp_darkarts on Livejournal in the response to a prompt for consensual homicide. This is actually the second story I wrote for the same prompt. While the character tags show the actual characters in the story for tagging purposes, I like it better with the characters remaining anonymous as written.
> 
> I loved this prompt, and loved writing this story. I had such a great time playing with language here.
> 
> As always, I do not own the world nor characters of Harry Potter, I just like to play with them.

 

You read the advertisement three times over breakfast, trying to be certain you see the words you think you see. You quietly tear the strip from the page and tuck it into your pocket, then excuse yourself before the meal is over, claiming a headache sends you to your room, and you close the world out.

You strip quickly and stand in front of the mirror. Your hands shake as you hold them out, looking at the slender, small fingers. The slim band of gold around your ring finger reminds you of the promises you have made. The charm bracelet on your left wrist is another reminder: one charm for every year of your son’s life. Someday it will be heavy, weighing you down and locking you into place in this house, in this family.

Five charms so far.

It feels like more.

Naked, you lean on the edge of the sink, fingers gripping the rim tightly, head bowed under the weight of it all.

You could do it.

It isn’t as if you haven’t done it before.

One taste, one touch.

One little sip to keep you sane.

Then you can come back to this life, mother and wife and the image of perfection within society. They rely upon you. In fact, you would be doing it for them.

You wonder if that is what your mother said every time she held the knife in her hand. You wonder if she had similar thoughts as your grandfather fought for breath, his last gasp giving your father the place he needed within the pureblood world.

The shower is a bliss of hot water, washing sins into rising passion. Fingers slip between lips slick like the flow of blood from a wound. You imagine how it feels to press the gaping edges of skin wide, pushing fingers into muscle and sinew; your thumb rolls over your nub and you crest with a soft whimper.

Water washes it all away, cleansing you.

You need this.

Once dry and clean, you take out your Quick Quotes Quill and charm it to use a perfectly neutral script. It pens a response, sets a date and time.

In two days, it will be done.

#

He is surprised to see you standing there. Recognition lights his eyes; his mouth opens as if to speak, but you silence him with a touch to his lips.

No words. There is only one thing you want to know.

One thing you need him to say.

The paper waits on the table, the text plain and simple but charmed to be official once signed. He writes his name upon it with a careful touch, then signs it.

A soft sigh escapes you. He has consented. It is done.

It is made all the better by his size.

He is tall where you are tiny. His broad frame dwarfs you as you stand before him, but you have all the power here. When he opens his mouth, you hold up your hand and he goes silent. He might wish to tell you _why_ but you don’t want to know. This isn’t about him any longer. He has given himself to you, and now he is nothing more than meat.

Meat does not talk.

But oh, it can scream.

You cast _Aphasia_ , just as your mother showed you when you were only twelve years old. There are ways to do this correctly, ways the Dark Lord taught. Warmth fills your gut when you can hear his moan, but his words are garbled and unclear. A small whimper from him at his loss of language and you shiver.

Leather strips slide up around him, leaving him clothed and closely bound, hanging from a conjured hook in the ceiling. He dangles there in the small, dark room. Anonymous place, anonymous meeting. No one will ever know you were here.

The first strike thrusts into the right hip, skating above the pelvic bone and into the soft meat. He cries out, a strangled noise as you twist the knife, opening the wound wider.

When you withdraw, blood spills out.

Perfect.

You press your fingers to the wound, sliding in two first, pushing at it until you can wedge the entirety of your hand within. He moans as you slowly fuck the cavity of his body, feeling the wet slip and slide of your touch. There are _things_ inside him, things you could see if you sliced him again and let them spill out into view.

You don’t want to see them.

You want to see the look in his eyes, feel the hitch in his breath as you stroke him from the inside, nudging at guts and organs.

He is beautiful in his fear, and you drink it in.

You don’t want this to end too soon; magic is so lovely in the way it can prolong agony. It can keep a body from dying, maintain the pain without sending it into shock and over the edge. You cast awkwardly with your left hand, unwilling to get blood on your wand. Several spells wrap around him until his breath shudders and you love the sound of it.

Your send your wand to a nearby table; the knife slips into your left hand. It is harder this time to get the angle right, beneath the ribs and twisting up, just beside the heart. You feel the tip catch a lung, ripping a hole as his breath rattles and blood bubbles up at the corners of his mouth.

You catch a taste of it, licking at his lips. He tastes of iron and fear, his breath rapid now and panicked.

When you reach into his chest and lightly skim fingers over his beating heart, he starts to scream. Every touch rips another shriek from his chest, breathy and catching as his lung fails to hold air.

You close your eyes and let your left hand enclose his heart, feeling the stuttering beat against your palm.

He is held in your hand; his life beats for you and you alone.

This is that best moment, when he would plead if he had words. When he is spilling over you and you are awash in the remnants of his life as you steal it completely.

You shove your right hand deeper, wedging it inside of him to the elbow, pushing past the tangle of his guts to reach up into the cavity above. _Things_ are in your way and you rip, push and prod, reveling in each cry he gives you at the pain.

Two bodies joined, one well and alive, and one failing as he gasps for breath and starts to silently beg. His lips move with unheard words, and you only smile sweetly, that perfectly tailored smile that is designed to set pureblood mothers at ease and make the Ministry pleased with you. Vapid. Adorable. Perfect.

His heart slows; shock makes his eyes wide, panic sets him shivering. You whisper soft syllables that mean nothing.

Then you squeeze.

His heart is larger than your small palm but it does not matter to you. Your fingernails dig in first, and you push with your fingertips, twisting as he spasms around you.

You feel it, that last heartbeat.

That last, soft rush of blood.

A sigh, and it is done.

You withdraw, a red river flowing sluggishly in the wake of your touch. A quick step, but there are splashes on your shoes. No matter; you will not wear these again.

Your hands are covered in his blood, the sharp metal scent bright in your nose. You raise them to your face, inhaling roughly, eyes closing. When you let your mind slip back, you can still feel his heart in your hand, the way it slipped away into death because _you made it_ do so.

They all think you are weak.

They think you are _good_. They have no idea what you have done, what lives in your heart.

They will never know.

You strip quickly, letting the clothes fall to the side, away from the puddle that lies beneath the corpse. Your hands slide over your skin, leaving streaks of red and rust in their path. Nipples are pinched, belly stroked. It only takes a moment to bring yourself off as you fall to your knees, fingers clutching at the floor.

_Fuck_.

The word is harsh, guttural, _beautiful_ as it falls from your lips. You breath through the final spasms, then stand and quietly, wandlessly vanish the mess. Another slip of hands over skin and the blood is gone; you are pale and clean, although you can feel how it has sunk into your pores.

You are stained deep.

You wish the world could see how it makes you shine.

#

You emerge from the shower and put yourself back together. The perfect mother, the perfect wife. Footsteps thunder down the hall louder than any five year old’s should be, echoed by the pair of Crups that are close on your son’s heels.

You barely manage to get the door open before he slides through, throwing his arms around you to hold you close. Your husband is close behind, watching with an indulgent, fond smile.

It is easier to breathe, knowing that blood stains your skin where no one else can see. Light touches remind you of the feel of guts in your fingers.

You will trust in luck to bring you another victim. You will read the advertisements, for the hearts so lonely they would give their life to be touched by death’s beautiful hand.

Their death is your sanity, so you can be mother and wife.

Blood makes you perfect; they will never see the rust upon your skin.


End file.
